


my magazine is full of ugly things

by Trojie



Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, POV Second Person, Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 12:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16367927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: 2. Pete Wentz/Gerard Way, the one coming back for you.





	my magazine is full of ugly things

He pulls you out of a burning wreck, and you spit in his face.

_excuse you i was busy_

_busy dying maybe_

_isn't that one of my options?_

He shrugs, and the spit drips down, catches on a greasy hank of his redredred hair and hangs like a diamond in the desert sunlight. He backhands you when you lunge for him. It's a reflex. This time you spit blood back, and then your mark on him matches the rest. His hands don't leave your body and he says it's because he can't trust you but you know excuses. They're your lifeblood, Pete. Admit it.

It feels good when he presses you into the passenger seat, except for how he buckes you in and gets in the other side instead of climbing in on top, but life is not a porno and you're not actually into men, when you get right down to it, so you pull yourself together and start trying to figure out what happens next.

His car stinks of burning oil and paint. You wonder if he thinks he'll get high off it, if the paint's for that, but then you look at him and the car itself and the motorbikes that join up to make your little run into a motorcade and realise no, the paint's for painting. And that flat, slanted mouth, those hollow dark eyes, they're not the windows to the soul of a man who huffs thinners for fun, either. 

'Where are we going?'

No answer. You kick your feet up on his dash and he slaps them down. 

You make some reflexive comment. Some kind of _ooh i love it when you take charge like that_ and he gives you a sour look that tells you he doesn't even remember the last time he got laid and he'll thank you for not reminding him. 

The sky ahead is blue and then gold, green and then black-blue with a flash of neon pink as straight and raw as your saviour's mouth. The car pulls over outside something that was a gas station once upon a time, and the bikes pull over too. 

This is it, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III. This is how you die. It's twelve hours later than you thought it would be, this time, which is about a week later than you thought it would be last time, and a month or so later than you thought it would be the time before that, but apparently it's finally happening. 

His boys get off their bikes. It's happening. It's happening. Your heart kicks up - the adrenaline rush, the dopamine spike, the anticipation, everything you're always looking for - and they walk past you barely with even a look. The big dude with the hair, wearing the worn leather driving gloves, the one who looks like he could throw a punch that would make even you shut up - he opens the door into what would have been the gas station's storefront, when currency had value, and the skinny bottle-blond you've been fantasising about slapping because you know he'd slap you back, and the whip-fast tiny one with the hard eyes, they don't even look at you, they just go in. Down down down into the darkness, and then it's you and him again. 

You rub your eyes and get the sting of the shitty grease you use to darken around them - for the sun, is your excuse, for the glare - and it makes you tear up involuntarily. Which sucks, because you don't want to die crying. 

He's holding the door. 'You coming?'

Sure, you'll come. Maybe this way no-one will have to dig a hole for you. Definitely this way no-one gets hold of your body afterwards, no-one ever gets to find out what accidents of biochemistry made you this way, so the BL/ind pills barely take hold, so you have illegal thoughts that spill out along the axon of your pen. You'll keep your secrets, or rather, Red here will keep them for you. He doesn't know he's doing it. He doesn't know what you buried underneath that car before you set it ablaze and crawled back in. But you'll accept his help anyway. 

You follow him into the dark, and wait for the knives. 

The noises start two steps down, and resolve into yelling and distortion and feedback, and then the lights, the lights lance into your brain. No knives, but almost as good. 

It's a pit. A pit in a pit - a mash of human bodies in childrens' tempera paint colours, in a dank earth round carved out of the hollow negative space of the foundations of the gas station, disarticulated pipes like the shankbones of some prehistoric carcass dangling down, revealing where the tanks used to be. A cathedral to the death of the thing that killed the world. A holy place. 

You take a boot to the head during the hymns, largely because that straight-line mouth is soft under your own, and those hands are back on your body, holding you down and strapping you in a different way. Holding you close. 

_i don't trust you_ he says, between breaths, between kisses. 

You don't ask why not, or what with. But you fold the phrase away for the next notebook, the next black box you're going to fill up and bury in the desert.

He tastes of paint. You might finally get high.

Just to really complete the cliche, you leave a fucking shoe behind in the pit. He leaves three and a half long parallel scratches on your back that he didn't mean to gift you with except you were hanging on close, both of you, when the pit surged like a tidal bore and you got knocked sideways and he had to grab for you or see you go under. You lost your shoe, and you lost your breath. 

You thought you were going to die tonight, again, but he just doesn't seem to want to let that happen. That's another reason for you to leave when the clock strikes metaphorically twelve. 

You're on your way back to Bat City anyway, even if you tell yourself you're not.

You've done this boomerang pilgrimage a hundred times

What if you stop it? What if you catch it in your hands?

You don't. You fumble in your pockets. Time to take your pills, to go under again. You take more than the stated dose but the stated dose never quite worked on you, Petey-boy, did it. You just need enough of this muck floating in your bloodstream to be allowed back into the antfarm, to pass muster for as long as it takes you to fill the next book and try this all over again.

He finds you in the neon yellow pink dawn light, thumbing for a lift, and he makes you throw up the handful you swallowed, and when the shakes stop three days later he's not there anymore in the car with you, but there's a flyer for the mad gear, scribbled with a note

_the doctor will see you now_


End file.
